[Author's Note: After publishing Chapter 2 of this tale I found this comment - -
Personally, as a Black woman, in spite of and yet also precisely because of the treacherous racial-sexual terrain this story ventures into, I think this story is psycho-emotionally sensitive and perceptive as well as being sexually arousing. I got hooked and really hope that you continue this story.
- - To the anonymous commenter, let me say thank you. I'm not sure how, but Literotica has a way to respond directly via email. Please contact me. I would LOVE to discuss this with someone of your sex and race. I'm working off of a month I spent with a lovely black girl when I was a junior in college more years ago than I care to think about. There was, as you point out, a clear racial-sexual tension between us and when we role-played, well, we had some discussions very near to what I described between Latitia and David after that first time. If you don't want to get into this further I understand, but I hope you do. Thanks either way.]
For the next month, we lived those two lives. Our Monday morning through Friday evening lives were pretty much what we had been living. I kept the house nice, visited the gym regularly, something necessary at my age if I wanted to maintain any physical condition at all, and attended the meetings of the historic society. I greeted her every evening with a Margarita in hand and dinner on the table. I was, in sum, the perfectly attentive househusband who had been wildly lucky by finding a young, beautiful wife.
On the weekends, Daisy was gradually accepting her new role. The biggest change, for now, was what Daisy wore. I fashioned her a loin cloth from hemp rope and very coarse burlap. On Friday night I did not greet her with a Margarita in hand. Rather, she was required to go to her bedroom, strip naked, scrub her makeup off, strip her nail polish, remove her jewelry, and come to me for instructions wearing only that loin cloth.
When she was Latitia she was assertive, more so than before we started this experiment. She called me "white boy" regularly and seemed enamored of the image of standing as I was on my knees, in the classic American blowjob position with my face between her legs, using the word she brought home from her antebellum studies, "pleasuring" her.
I noticed that her, well, her "kinkiness" if there is such a word, was getting more bizarre, and on one of those deep levels I welcomed it. I was studying and researching and was pretty sure that on weekends it was going to get
DAMN
kinky before we were done.
On Thursday of the second week of our new life, dinner eaten and dishes in the dishwasher, I was on my knees, as I was most evenings now, when she grunted her orgasm.
I tasted the oily saltiness of her pleasure and tried to cry out when her fingers in my hair suddenly twisted, hurting me, and I tasted the acrid, bitter, saltiness of urine.
When I tried to pull away her fingers twisted harder, holding me there.
And I surrendered.
I swallowed.
"That's right, white boy," she said, her voice thick and deep, a tone I hadn't heard before.
She grunted again and I felt the tension in her ass under my hands and the bitter acrid taste in my mouth was replaced with her salty, oily nectar.
I understood what Latitia was doing. In part, well, our sex life had always had a strong component of, oh, let's call it "experimentation." When you're three times your bride's age you do whatever you need to do to keep her interested and excited. And her new aggressive stance was just an extension of that.
For my part, I understood as well that as she was coming to understand and accept her Daisy persona, I was leading her into a world that was opposed to her lifetime of training, of the morals and mores her culture had taught her since she was old enough to understand them. And since what I was doing seemed to be better than my Viagra when it came to my, well, my "performance" with her, I wanted to be sure not to blow it.
But I was studying. And I was doing a little shopping on the side.
On the weekends, when my beautiful Daisy was doing her chores and I would inspect them, I made sure to praise her good work.
I was also trying to get her used to her new life in little ways.
It's amazing how easy it is to find things on the Internet, isn't it?
I got her something called a "posture collar" from a website specializing in "Bondage, Discipline, Sadism, and Masochism," something I quickly learned you could find easily on the web by searching for BDSM. It was a heavy leather thing, about three inches wide with a little pocket that accepted a stainless steel spike that was provided - for fifty-nine dollars it should have been. When I put the collar on her, her tears were flowing and her nose running although she stayed perfectly still, on her knees, as I did so. That sharp little spike nestled in the soft skin under her chin, forcing her to hold a head-high posture or she would poke herself with it. I put it on her whenever we went out after I bought it.
From the same store, I bought a purpose-made spanking strap. It was a beautiful piece of leatherwork, with a braided handle, and a two-foot-long strap of leather, hard and yet flexible. I went to WalMart's sporting goods section and bought some "glove oil" that I carefully worked into the strap.
I searched the internet to find a nightclub that, well, catered to our new life.
Finding places with a BDSM theme was easier. Finding something relating to our new life experiment, though, required more searching, but that is a tale for a later chapter of this narrative.
I visited
The Dark Side
, a private club I had found that catered to the BDSM life, one afternoon while Latitia was at work. The place itself was in the city's exurbs, you know, that band around any city where municipal planning and zoning do not apply and county regulations are, well, let's just say, neither terribly restrictive nor very tightly enforced.
It sat on a large plot of land, reached by following Google Maps to an address and then following a narrow tree-lined lane. The building itself was unremarkable. Just a sprawling concrete block building painted a light tan that almost blended into the surrounding earth. The parking lot was hard-packed dirt, with parking spots marked by wheel bumpers rather than paint. A single large double door, centered on the wall facing the parking lot, was painted black and the only marking on the outside was a discrete sign over the door, in black of course, identifying
The Dark Side
."
Inside there was a small entrance area with a podium. Access to the club proper was through a second door, appropriately black and very heavy, or at least made up to look heavy, with a wooden "Z" frame and heavy studs showing.
The woman who emerged from the door, presumably summoned by some sort of bell arrangement, was striking. She was tall, I guessed her at 5'10" or so in her bare feet, and well over 6' in the black stiletto heels she wore. Her hair was a striking white and her skin was so pale you thought of sleeping in a coffin by day. Her lips were scarlet, her eyes were such a bright blue I assumed they were contact lenses, with eye shadow in blue as well to highlight them. Her eyebrows were dyed to match her hair. From her throat, where a sort of turtleneck top covered it, to the tops of her shoes she was completely covered in black material so clingy there was no doubt that underwear was not part of her wardrobe. The only skin visible was her face and hands. The plastic name tag prominently featured over her left breast proclaimed her as Bambee.
"May I help you?" she asked, and her voice made me think of Juilliard or maybe the Jefferson Airplane. It was a clear soprano and I wondered if she sang.
I was a bit stumped.
"Ummmm," I started, "I found this place online and thought it might be a place my wife and I would fit in."
"Oh," she said, kind of leaving me hanging.
"So I thought I'd look the place over," I said at last.
"It's a private club, sir," she said.
"Oh," I said and started to turn away.
"This is a one-time, introductory offer. You pay the one hundred dollar temporary member fee and you have a one-time admittance. If you want to come back, the hundred dollars is applied to your thousand dollar initiation fee and we'll set up a one hundred dollars a month membership fee automatic withdrawal from your checking account," she said.
